Elsie's Etude
by chatelaines
Summary: Carson & Hughes married, impending BabyBates!, smut, feels and flashback sequences — because I don't know about you but I really want Carson to revisit the Cheerful Charlies chapters of his life at least once. And Elsie's got to reveal more about Becky. Obviously plenty of S5 spoilers, and maybe S6 ones if I'm Nostradamus. Rated M overall because there will be adult scenarios ;)
1. Chapter 1: Prelude

_"Licence my roving hands, and let them go_

_Before, behind, between, above, below."_

― John Donne

* * *

><p><em>Chapter One: Prelude<em>

* * *

><p>"Are you alright, Mrs. Hughes?"<p>

In the darkness of their bedroom, his voice — even as it tried to whisper — bellowed through the hollow space. They hadn't much furniture and most rooms in their cottage, still sparse, held their voices in long echoes. In the bedroom they shared, which had been as much a practicality, given the small size of the cottage, as a benefit of their matrimony, there were two twin beds. Separated by a small nightstand, the two beds — his bearing no loose sheets, just a few throws (as he was easily overheated in the night, he said) and hers plush with a downy comforter, several afghans, and the nicest threadbare sheets they could afford (he had insisted upon it). She'd never slept in such a luxurious bed in her life, though even with its warmth and charm, what made her sleep so restful was knowing he was just a few steps away.

She startled slightly at his voice — she had been so deeply lost in her own thoughts that his rumbling baritone may well have been a steam engine. One hand pressing lightly to her chest, she inhaled sharply — looking across the room at him. He, too, was sitting up in bed, a small pair of reading glasses perched on his broad nose. All the years she had known him, the nights spent in the pantry having their sherry, seeing him bent over ledgers — she had never seen him don spectacles, and all at once it made her giddy and a little sad. They were getting older somehow faster now that they were, at last, together.

"I'm fine — tired." she said noncommittally. She proffered a small — and she hoped pacifying—smile and let her eyes return to her book.

"I happened to notice that you have not turned the page in a quarter-hour." he said, reaching up to remove his eyeglasses, "It may just be a most engaging passage, but something tells me that you're distracted. You hardly touched your tea this evening."

She genuinely smiled at this; how strange it was to be noticed. What an odd and delightful feeling to go about one's life knowing that the person sharing it with you takes note of even your tiniest idiosyncrasies. It was his training to watch those to whom he gave his loyalty with the sharp eyes of a hawk, anticipating their wants and needs, remaining all at once a step ahead while hovering behind.

After they married, when they began sharing a home, he effortlessly began to understand how she moved through the world. Though they had worked alongside one another for more than a decade, had their chats and walked side by side on countless occasions, there was so much that he did not know.

He had never seen her with her hair down, freshly washed. Never laid eyes on the jagged scar that maimed her left breast. He had never heard her softly singing hymns from her youth in the dark quiet of her bedroom at Downton on the long nights of winter, when her memories kept her awake — ghosts that clung to her when the candles had burned down.

In the few weeks that they had been living together, he had learned that she took her tea milk-in-first, almost exclusively slept on her right side, which meant that she often had her back turned to him in the night. Their second or third night together, she had offered a solemn justification: quite simply, it still often bothered her to lay on her left side, the scar tissue in her breast pinching in the night. Her face had flushed as she quietly uttered the word. He had only blinked a few times before hastily clearing his throat and mumbling an acknowledgement.

Although they hadn't yet consummated their union, he had learned more about her since they began sharing a home than simply her tea preference. The first morning after their first night together, her eyes opened and she found herself immediately disoriented. She blinked furiously, a ripple of panic — residual jitters from the day before—came over her and she sat up in bed with a slight gasp. His form in the bed next to her, bathed in sunrise, turned toward her — and she realized that he must have awoken before her, yet not risen.

"What it is?" he said, reaching for the bedcovers. For it being so early he was remarkably prepared to fight a battle in her honor.

"Oh — Mr. Carson, I'm sorry if I startled you. It's just been a long time since I woke up somewhere other than Downton."

He relaxed, and the sleepy smile on his face settled her nerves. "I had rather the same dilemma — only I never quite fell asleep at all."

"You must be exhausted," she said, stifling a yawn.

"Not so bad as that," he said, settling back against the headboard of his bed. "I am quite famished. Shall I get up and put a kettle on?"

She cocked her head at his sweetness. They were not going up to the big house today, as they had been instructed by His Lordship to take a long weekend to get their home in order — and, they were only to assume, ease into their marriage.

Though, it had proven to be a fairly painless task. They had coexisted in so many ways for so many years that much of what some younger couples may have had to spend the first years of their marriage learning, they came prepared with.

Of course, what younger couples — Anna and Mr. Bates, she thought— had in their favor was their fearlessness. She'd watched maids and footmen over the years, saw their appetites for one another. Though she herself had, over the years, earned the long faced title of spinster (the Mrs. in her name merely to indicate that her spouse was a grand house) she wasn't oblivious to longing. Of course, for her there had hardly been scads of suitors. Joe Burns, bless his heart, had liked the idea of her for many years.

And then, of course, there was a certain butler. One who had noticed that she had not touched her tea. That she could not focus on the book before her. No doubt he had been watching her sidelong for several moments, his eyes taking in the sight of her fingers mindlessly stroking the yellowed pages of her book. Perhaps he had noticed that she was biting her lip — something she'd done all her life, though never thought of until it was mentioned to her. He waited patiently, sitting up in his bed, the covers pushed down so that the tops of his pajamaed legs were visible. He had closed his book on his index finger, holding his place. Though she knew that if she began to speak, he would quickly set the book aside and offer his full attention to her.

"I suppose I'm not all that engrossed in the tale." she said, closing her book and sliding it onto her side of the night table. He did the same, as she had known he would, and then let his hands come to rest in his lap.

"You were so quiet this evening I didn't ask but — I know you had a visit with Anna this afternoon. I'm hoping that she is well and that you haven't a reason to worry?"

Elsie smiled. She had been to see Anna. The Bates' little cottage was warm and homey, and would be even more so in a few weeks when the bairn came.

"Oh no, I'm not worried. She's a bit apprehensive — but I don't think that's unusual. It's her first — and I know she's a been fretting since her lying-in started." Elsie chuckled, "If anything the poor girl's going mad from boredom."

Carson laughed, "Well, I can only imagine. With Mr. Bates gone until late in the evening she must be a bit lonesome." he looked at her kindly, "She must have been so pleased to see you."

"I think she was. I was certainly pleased to see her."

Narrowing his gaze a bit, Carson turned toward her slightly — prepared to deliver a theory. "Mrs. Hughes, I know that often my affection for Lady Mary have been a bit of a mystery to you, but I dare say that the affection you feel for Anna is not wholly dissimilar to how I feel about Lady Mary."

Elsie shrugged, looking down at her hands. They were dry, cracking from the change in air. "You've known Lady Mary since she was a child, Mr. Carson" she said quietly, "I think that permits you your tenderness for her."

"I don't think it has much to do with how long I've known her. So too did I know the other young ladies."

"Why Lady Mary, then?" Elsie asked, looking up at him. Carson seemed to consider this a moment and she wondered if he'd ever had reason to ruminate on it before.

"I suppose I could ask you why Anna — as opposed to the other housemaids."

She pressed her lips together — he'd answered with a question that made her think, perhaps, they were both considering the same thing. She opted to muse a bit, as sometimes she felt that she couldn't know her thoughts until she heard herself speak them.

"Anna's a very sweet lass—and she works hard. It was immediately apparent to me that she was the most capable housemaid. And of course she was a natural Lady's Maid." Elsie sighed, "I believe she could replace me one day, if she wanted to. Though with a family —" she hesitated, then shook her head. "Well, with the bairn her priorities will change. She could certainly be housekeeper if she wanted to but —" she let her voice trail off, knowing that he understood. At times, what went unsaid between them was felt more deeply than what the vocalized.

"Perhaps she reminds you a bit of yourself at that age," he ventured. "Clever, ambitious, kind-hearted. . ."

"Oh, you flatter me Mr. Carson." she scoffed.

"Well, seeing as you are my wife I'd say it's well within my right to do so, Mrs. Hughes."

She smiled, leaning her head back against the headboard of her bed. "When I visited her today, I felt as though . . ." she swallowed, feeling her chest burn. Maybe she should swallow the words back down — she was desperately afraid that to speak them meant she would feel them, and if she felt them she would most certainly cry.

She heard his bed creek. He had thrown the covers back — he hadn't even fallen asleep yet and already he was getting uncomfortably hot, she knew—and thrown his legs over the side of the bed. He didn't move to stand, but looked down at her knowingly.

"Did you feel as though — perhaps — you were seeing the life you might have had if you'd gone another way?" he said quietly.

For him to know that — to have known it before they'd even started this conversation, no doubt—made her heart ache even more deeply. But it was not an altogether painful ache — somewhere within it was a sense of longing. She just didn't know what it was she was feeling so pulled toward in him.

"It's a silly thought, really." she said, preemptively wiping her eyes. She laughed a bit, her eyes glistening. "The poor lass— you know Anna, she's just a wee thing and the bairns got her out to here," she brought her hands out wide in front of her own stomach, then quickly let them fall. She hesitated, then turned toward him, one leg falling aside—so that beneath her heap of blankets her legs were open to him, which seemed somehow intimate even though he couldn't see.

"She's feeling well, though? The doctor's been to see her?"

Elsie looked up at his face, which was tightly drawn in worry. It took her a moment to realize why: with the birth of every child now, they all would remember Lady Sybil. It couldn't be helped, it was a tragedy that had touched them all — Elsie had shed a well of tears over the girl. She just had never considered that he may have as well.

"Yes, Mr. Carson. She's in fine-fettle." her hands twitched in her lap, "Very happy, in fact. The bairn is lively and I suppose that eases her loneliness a bit."

"Lively?"

Elsie caught his eye — he didn't understand, and why should he have? She almost had to laugh at how a grown man, a well-educated, well-read and a man far more worldly than herself, could be so lost by such a remark.

"The bairn's stirrings," she said lightly. "When a woman is with child she can feel the rustling — Anna said the doctor calls it quickening."

"It doesn't — hurt?"

Her face softened and she gazed sweetly at her. Something about his expression was so innocent, his eyes wide and inquisitive.

"No, Mr. Carson. Well, not so much I don't think. Though close as she is to her confinement, when she lay my hand over it—" she pressed her hand against herself, against the soft untried flesh of her middle, "—I could feel it, too."

Carson didn't speak for a moment, he just let his gaze rest on her. As she felt his staring, she lifted her hand self-consciously from her body — suddenly feeling that touching herself in any way at all when he was looking at her so directly was just too intimate — and cleared her throat nervously.

"Anyway, I told her that when the bairn comes we'd be first on her doorstep."

She lifted her gaze to meet his, turning her face up into a smile — and she saw at once that he knew she was compelling it. She saw her own sadness on his face, then. Slowly, his feet hit the floor, bones cracking as he stood up. He took a tentative step toward the bed, and she nodded. He lowered himself down and rested one hand on her leg atop the comforter. Even though the down was thick, she could feel the heat from his hand through each layer.

"As a Butler, it may not have been within the limits of propriety for me to become so eminently aware of your heartache, Mrs. Hughes." he paused, letting his palm flatten against her leg. "However, as your husband, I believe it is my call of duty."

There were stirrings deep within her now, and she thought of how Anna's child had eddied beneath her palm — the rolling currents of new life. Something likewise swelled up within her now — a quivering in that hollowness inside of her. The heat of the room became thick, as though she were trying to breathe in something heavier than air. Her heart wobbled in her chest, blood whooshing in her ears and — a baffling sensation of fullness began to rise up in her core.

"Mr. Carson," she breathed. Her mouth had suddenly gone quite dry, and she hastily licked her lips to moisten them — though, for what? They had shared chaste kisses, mostly he pecked her on the cheek — but suddenly her body felt the shakings of — the word hitched in her chest—desire.

"May I kiss you?" he rumbled, leaning in ever-so slightly.

She swallowed again, "A kiss or —" she pulled her face back from him a moment, letting her eyes ask.

He smiled sprightly, "Or—?"

Her mouth hung agape. He mumbled nervously. "Of course, I would never be so bold as to suggest — that is to say, Mrs. Hughes, that if you are not feeling the same, I would never obligate you."

"Mr. Carson," she said suddenly, her voice a little too loud, too shrill. It stopped him instantly, and he held her gaze steadily. Her hand found his atop the bedcovers and she wrapped her fingers around his. "I do feel the same. At least, I believe that I do." her eyes fell to their hands, "I haven't —"

He laid his hand softly against her cheek, "I know," he said quietly, "It doesn't matter."

"Doesn't matter? I don't follow. . ." she said, looking up at him. "Surely if — if you suspected all this time that I — that I haven't ever been —"

"Even if you had, Mrs. Hughes, we have never been together. And in that way, it's entirely new to us both, in equal measure."

She smiled, "I suppose that's true."

"We'll learn together." he said, his thumb caressing her cheek. "If you'd like."

"Show me." she breathed, taking his face in her hands. "I feel as though there's something that I want — or need— to have from you, and yet I don't know how to ask."

He pressed his forehead against hers, his voice rumbling in his chest so that she could feel the vibrations in her head, "That's because it's not a question you ask with your words. Rather, one of the body." he pulled back, pushing a fallen lock of hair behind her ear, "One of the heart."

She smiled, biting her bottom lip gently. "Tell me what to do," she said.

"Listen," he whispered, "To what your heart is asking you to do."

She sighed wearily — oh, if she knew she'd have done it by now! Flustered, she pulled back from him a ways, bringing her hands to her face and shaking her head lightly.

"Oh, Mr. Carson— I don't think it's a language I speak." she said sadly. She'd felt for most of the evening as though she may be on the verge of tears, but now she'd become quite certain of it.

"Ah, but you can learn." Carson proffered quietly. He leaned in closer to her, so close that she could feel his hot breath against the top of her lip, smell the remnants of the sweet sherry he'd had before bed and a hint of tooth powder. She had stopped inhaling, a breath caught beneath her collar bone. He pressed his lips gently to hers and she felt the fullness of her bottom lip — that she was so known to worry — become softly enclosed between his. His mouth was hot against hers, and he had begun to move against her, his arms encircling her, drawing her closer. The air around him was warm and inviting, like the hearth of their home. She smiled against his teeth at the thought — his love the hearth, the light and incalescence of their togetherness.

He pulled his lips from hers just enough to speak, "Is this agreeable?" he asked, his hand running up her arm to her shoulder and back down, resting at her hip.

"Yes — very much." she said, surprised at how wide she'd begun to smile. It nearly hurt and she felt a bizarre giddiness well up in her. She'd have chastised a poor young maid for the same thing, telling her not to stand around in the halls looking as though she were about to "melt into a puddle" over some footmen.

"May I remove my pajamas?" he asked nervously, "That is to say — the trouser portion of them?" he moved to stand, then put a hand out reassuringly "I've underthings on, I promise you. I just. . .I'd like to get under the bedclothes. If you don't mind."

"I don't mind, Mr. Carson," she laughed, "But do you suppose we'll both fit?"

He looked at her a moment, a coy smile about his lips. "We will fit fine, Mrs. Hughes. I promise."

Though she felt a bit unassured doing so, she watched as he gently slid off the lower half of his nightclothes and then began to unbutton the shirt. She wiggled her fingers anxiously, lifting a hand out to him.

"May I?" she said, wanting desperately to pull him back to her bed, she wanted to be close to him — suddenly she became aware, and almost frighten by, the need that she had to have her hands on him, completely, leaving no patch of skin untouched. He acquiesced, returning to sit on the bed, though this time he was consideringly closer. He turned his chest toward her and she began to unfasten the buttons with shaky hands, so uncertain of herself that even the simple task of unbuttoning a shirt seemed to require all her effort and concentration. When she'd finally managed to push the shirt off, letting it slide over his broad shoulders, the sight of his bare chest made her breath hitch.

She tentatively flattened her palm against his skin, wiry hairs — the bulk of them gray — tickling the skin of her fingers. She inhaled sharply and there was suddenly a chill in the air that burned her teeth as the air whooshed into her mouth. Beneath her hand, his heart pounded. In the same way she had felt Anna's unborn child push against her hand, she now felt the only proof that Charles Carson had, at one time, been a young man herself, his heart dancing against her palm like a insouciant young footmen. A handsome baritone who pun tiny lasses around the music halls, their perfume filling his nose and their skirts brushing up against his leg. She wasn't sure how, but in this moment she felt as though she loved him wholly, even the bits of his life that she didn't know — that she could never know — and while she wondered if it ought to make her sad, all she felt was certain. He had been correct that there were not words for what she wanted of him — to share with him, or create with him; she wasn't sure — but inside her there was a steady clicking, the ticking of an antique clock. Her heart, which had kept time for her, kept time for Becky — was beating now in a new key signature, one that she knew was the ballad of Charles Carson.

In the final moment before she fell against him, her hands finding their way up the sides of his neck, grasping at the nape as she pressed her lips to his, she fleetingly wondered how she sounded in his ears, in his mind — in his memory. And now, as they began to move in metered time towards one another, towards the apex of an aria that she'd never heard, but was already sure would reverberate sweetly in her ears for always, she pressed her ear against his face, gasping for breath, and listened for their melody.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: You guys are so wonderful, oh my goodness! Thank you to everyone who left a lovely review, here and on Tumblr. I was tickled pink! Just a note about this chapter — it occurred to me that if Mrs. Hughes only had a biopsy on her breast, she would not likely have a surgical scar but would, of course, still have a cystic breast. This can be very painful, so that element within the story still holds, but she would have only a negligible wound if she had one at all. Actually, the history of breast cancer — "women's cancers" in general — from the time period was exceptionally fascinating reading! **

* * *

><p>"<em>I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees."<em>

-Pablo Neruda

* * *

><p><em>Chapter Two: <em>_Consonance _

* * *

><p><em>. . .In the final moment before she fell against him, her hands finding their way up the sides of his neck, grasping at the nape as she pressed her lips to his, she fleetingly wondered how she sounded in his ears, in his mind — in his memory. And now, as they began to move in metered time towards one another, towards the apex of an aria that she'd never heard, but was already sure would reverberate sweetly in her ears for always, she pressed her ear against his face, gasping for breath, and listened for their melody. <em>

"Mrs. Hughes—," he said, his voice reverberating against her cheek. She pulled back, her heart hammering away in her chest.

"Have I done something wrong—" she breathed, letting her hands fall from his shoulders.

"No, no. It's just—" Carson sputtered, "I'd like to remove your nightclothes. Or, perhaps, you could?"

He winced slightly, afraid that he'd offended her with his forwardness. She pressed a hand to her flushed face and laughed lightly.

"Oh, Mr. Carson — for heaven's sake. I thought you were about to tell me you were having second thoughts." She lifted her eyes to him, "You're kind to ask and I know that you only want to put me at ease. I admit, I do feel a bit foolish. A woman of my age, pawing at you like a lass—"

"You oughtn't feel foolish at all," Carson said softly, "There is a reason so many of your young charges were willing to risk their livelihoods for a stolen moment of such pawing."

She looked at him expectantly and he laughed, "Because it's time rather well spent, Mrs. Hughes."

Her eyes flickered away from him, a final thread of uncertainty unraveling.

"Even if there will be no bairns?"

His face fell a bit and she looked up at him, hoping he would understand. "Mr. Carson, I just — perhaps I do feel a bit silly. I know we've married, and consummating our marriage is well within our right — but at our age, seeing as we won't be having a family—is this . . ." the word, she couldn't say it, could barely think it. It was what this feeling was though, wasn't it? This fervor within her, this need which had possessed her—and it had, it was a possession, and one that excited her and feared her all at once. If she were young, capable of bearing his children, then it would be duty, it would be purpose and not —

"You mustn't confuse depravity and desire." he said quietly, but with an assuredness that allowed the air to rush back into her lungs. After a moment, she exhaled.

"I suppose I've all but ruined the moment now with talk," she said, smiling sad. He reached his hand over to lift her chin, looking her straight in the eye.

"I would still very much like to help you out of your nightdress."

She sighed, a deep shudder that shook her entire torso. Her breasts heaved as she inhaled, not taking her eyes from his for a moment. He placed his hands at her waist, pressing against her hips just slightly. She lifted her arms and instinctively let her forearms come before her face so that he could no longer see her. He leaned forward, nudging her arms apart with his face and pressed his lips tenderly against hers as he worked his hands beneath her nightgown. She felt the rush of cool air against her bare skin and as the soft fabric moved over her hair, it pulled apart her plait, sending loose tendrils over in face in a wispy veil. His hands came up to part the auburn curtain and the feeling of his hands in her hair made her shiver. Not from the cold — but something else. Something quite hot.

She suddenly became entirely conscious of the moment they were sharing. Before she had felt as though she were in a dream, the dimness of the room and the softness of their voices lulling her into a gentle calm. Now, vulnerable and in such uncharted territory, she was hyperalert. The room seemed all at once very foreign, very bright — and he was so real, so tangible before her, that she could only reason if their life before had been so dreamlike, the feeling she was experiencing now must be that of being fully alive.

He was looking at her the way a person might consider a painting in a museum: honorable regard. He did not reach to touch, merely studied her with a peculiar fondness, a small smile curling at his lips. She realized that while he had never seen her in such a state of undress, at the same time there was, in this closeness, an ineffable familiarity. Perhaps he was only seeing her for the first time, but in so many ways, he had already seen her in more vulnerable states than dishabille.

She was suddenly taken by the memory of sitting before Dr. Clarkson in such a similar state of undress. It had been cold in his office. Her teeth had been chattering, though it might have been nerves, and she clenched her teeth tightly together as his hand grasped her breast. For a fleeting moment, while she knew that he was feeling for something — malignancy was the word he'd used—she allowed her eyes to flutter closed and just for a second allowed herself to wondered if it would feel this way if someone were touching her out of love. It had only been a brief fantasy, as the exam was over almost as soon as it had begun. After the biopsy, when the wound was still weeping and she couldn't have standed to be touched, the soreness so deep she wondered if he'd nicked her heart, she lay awake in her bed, crying quietly, wishing for someone's embrace.

It hadn't been someone — it had been him. Here he was, before her now, and she followed his gaze down to where he studied the raised tissue* along her breast. His eyes wetted, but he did not blink, and he raised his shaking hand, allowing it to hover over her breast. He lifted his gaze to meet hers, and she gave a tiny nod, unable to raise her voice into her throat. She felt the worn skin of his palm against her and her mouth fell open. _It was so very, wonderfully different_. It was not cold and calculating, it was warm and reverent.

"Does it hurt you?" he asked quietly, gently thumbing the side of her breast, letting the weight of it rest in his hand.

"Not nearly as much as the memory." she whispered.

"I loved you then," he said, his hand coming up to gently stroke her cheek, "I'm not sure if I knew — but I do now, looking back on it."

She smiled knowingly. _Dashing away with a smoothing iron_.

The room, now that she was unclothed, had begun to feel a bit draughty and she tried unsuccessfully to stifle a shudder. Pull from his reverie, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her against his broad chest.

"Perhaps we should get beneath the bedclothes," he said, reaching one arm behind her to pull back the covers. She slid beneath them first and couldn't help but smile as he slid in next to her, tucking the top throw around her. His hand hesitated and he laughed, a naughty throaty little chuckle, before raising his eyebrows at her. "I haven't the slightest idea what compelled me to tidy up these blankets. By the end of it they'll be in disarray, on the floor no doubt."

Taken aback, but endlessly pleased by his rascality, she laughed a bit harder than she intended. He grinned wildly in response.

"Mrs. Hughes I don't believe I've ever heard you laugh — really, laugh."

She blushed, "I've been called many things, but never a _gigglemug,_ Mr. Carson. I admit the thought of you displaying a hint of boyish wickedness brings me unforeseen mirth."

"I was a young man once, you know. How else would I have learned this?"

In one fell swoop, he leaned over and pressed his lips to hers, his hand running up her thigh, over her hips and torso, meeting his lips as they fell along the length of her neck. She exhaled sharply, her hands flat against his back, fingers curling and nails pressuring the skin of his shoulders.

He gently lowered her down against the pillows, his mouth finding hers again, hands roaming, though seemingly on a path, the full length of her body. She felt her body relax into the softness of the bed, the feeling of his hands on her — finally — not just thrilling, but blanketing her in a wash of calm that she hadn't realized she was in desperate need of. His hands found her inner thigh, gently nudging her legs open. He gripped her upper thigh and her breath caught as the strength of it. Peculiarly, she felt a dampness in response to his touch and it made her dizzy with worry. She didn't want him to stop — but what if something was wrong?

"I—I think something's the matter," she sighed against his ear, leading him to raise his head from where had been nuzzling her neck. He tucked a fallen strand of hair behind her ear.

"I'll stop if you —"

She shook her head, pulling her bottom lip under her front teeth. "I don't — I don't think I want you to, but—I think there's something wrong with—" she didn't even quite know what to say, how to explain herself. She realized, and it deeply humiliated her, she did not even know what precisely it was that had happened.

So, she slipped her hand beneath the covers and groped for his. Finding it, she pulled it against the warmth at her center. Immediately, he understood and his eyes brightened.

"I see," he whispered, "Do you trust me?"

His eyes — dark, but yet alight— looked so deeply into hers that she thought perhaps he could see her very soul coming alive under her skin, illuminating her from within. Perhaps that was what she saw in his gaze.

"Yes." she swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry and her voice wavering.

"What you are feeling is perfectly normal. It is one of the myriad ways your body speaks its innermost desires in these times of great intimacy. There are — many times, you'll find, Mrs. Hughes — when there are not adequate words for what one feels. And in those moments, the body speaks."

She knew then precisely what it was that she wanted of him. Thankfully, he must have seen the asking in her eyes; as moved to remove his undergarments, he pressed his hand against the heat at her core and she felt herself push against him, their bodies finding their rhythm.

There had been so many books on the subject confiscated from maid's rooms, books she hardly opened — feeling that she would never have reason to know of the secrets in their pages. She knew from what the book of life had taught her that these acts of love beget bairns, that a woman's body knows when and how to bring forth a child. Could it be that a woman's body so too knows when and how to join with another? Can a woman's body — even if the fertile grounds of her womb are dry and cracked— still want for rain? Wouldn't that mean they need it even more than they did in their lush youth?

She knows from these books and her stolen glances, her studies lacking context, lacking hope of application, that it may hurt when they come together. That she may bleed. She almost laughs at the thought — it has been years since she experienced the monthly blood of a woman who was still young enough to be procreant. Even if the bleeding of being in full bloom was long behind her, she felt in response to his touch, to the sensation of him entering her for the first time, that she was flowering in a different way. She wasn't a young woman anymore, but her blood still raced through her veins and made her supple, made her chest and neck pink and sweet with anticipation.

It did hurt — but it was not the pain she knew. It was not the sharp prick of a needle in her breast. It was not the cramp of those monthly blood lettings, nor was it the long, pull of old joints. It wasn't the heavy hand of guilt that laid against her chest at night like a slumbering child, it wasn't the fresh, searing slice of a sharp knife against her finger when she was cutting apples. It wasn't the low howl of regret that squeezed her when she thought about her Ma, about Becky. It wasn't the blinding, nauseating pain of rage neo be enacted on a man who she would have gladly slain. It wasn't the rolling in her belly, the sob caught in the dip between her collarbones whenever she looked at Anna. It wasn't the hollowness of missing William, of her maternal empathy and longing.

This was not a pain the way she had come to know pain to be. It was, instead, a pain with promise. A pain that apologized in its subtlety, in the way it tried to be quick — it was a considerate pain. A pain that was quickly replaced by a fullness, a feeling of a piece clicking into place — a resolute completion.

"Am I hurting you?" he asked suddenly, pulling her from her reverie. She shook her head, reaching up to gently stroke his face.

"_No_," she crooned, the long sound of it surprising them both. He smiled appreciatively and began to move more quickly against her. She felt her breathing quicken in time and she felt the strangest giddiness within herself; as though her body were trying to stifle a laugh.

A small sound escaped her, somewhere between a laugh and a moan, and his eyes widened. She felt herself grin as he pressed his lips against hers.

"Please don't find me crass — _but how oft I have imagined this_." he said, his breath ragged against her mouth. Deeply within her, something began to pulse like a second heartbeat and she exhaled sharply, their teeth clicking against each other as she pulled her head away, another reverberating moan rising up in her. She felt her legs tense, one knee bending and rising up, her heel digging into the bed. Her arms pulled him tightly down then, aggressively against her, as though if she could possibly get closer to him this building sensation within her would resolve, this feeling of being on the precipice of a great fall would wane and she would be able to catch her breath again.

In his undoing, he was remarkably gentle. For every sensation she had felt that had reached a fierce intensity, as he reached his end inside of her, the let down was an affectionate tempest. His body softened in her arms, and as he held her, his breathing slowing, she felt the faintest throbbing — a mumble of pleasure. She squeaked, biting down against her lip to quiet herself. He picked his head up languidly, one eyebrow raising in question.

"Was it — at the very least— fair to middling—Mrs. Hughes?"

Her mouth fell open wide in a toothy grin and she laughed, pulling his head fearlessly against her chest. She kissed his hair as her head fell back against the pillows.

"Positively _sterling_—but for one thing." She said, pulling his head up and pressing her forehead against his, "I really think it's high time you started calling me _Elsie._"


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thank you all for the lovely reviews — my goodness, I'm amazed at your kindness and sweet words. Certainly makes me want to do my best on this little story. I hope this chapter wasn't too angsty. A little pillow talk so nothing M in this one — but, you know, we'll be back at it next chapter methinks. . .I'm not totally happy with how this one turned out, but I wanted to just move through it — sometimes you've just got to let go!**

* * *

><p>"If we discovered that we had only five minutes left to say all that we wanted to say, every telephone booth would be occupied by people calling other people to stammer that they loved them."<br>― Christopher Morley

* * *

><p><em>Chapter Three<em>

* * *

><p><em>. . ."Positively sterling—but for one thing." She said, pulling his head up and pressing her forehead against his, "I really think it's high time you started calling me Elsie." <em>

"Goodness," he said quietly, letting the sound of her name settle over him. "That means you would start calling me Charles, then?"

She bit her lip, "I suppose so."

He rolled the syllables of her name around in his mouth for a moment, savoring them like the first sip of a glass of wine. When his voice rose up and carried the sound of her name into the room, it was so low it was nearly inaudible. Only because she was laying against his chest and felt the way it vibrated through her was she aware that he'd uttered it.

"_Ells-see." _he said again, his confidence building. "I wouldn't want you to take offense at this but — it seems such a girlish name, don't you think?" he laughed lightly, "The sound of it makes me imagine you as a young girl back on your family's farm in Argyll."

"Charles truly suits you," she said, her voice catching as she realized it was the very first time she'd said his name aloud.

"What a lovely sound that is." he said, kissing the top of her head.

"_Charles and Elsie Carson_." she whispered, tucking her fists up under her chin as she nuzzled against his warm chest. "Always Charles — never _Charlie_?"

She lifted her head to smirk at him and saw him wince slightly. "I don't think it befits me. Charlie Carson was but a character I once played."

"I know you hesitate to speak of that time in your life but — as your wife, I wonder if perhaps I'd be privvy."

He sighed, "Well, you did tell me about Beccy."

"Yes, I did."

"I wouldn't say I've anything to hide in _not_ telling about that part of my life. Like you said, I don't lie — there are just some things I don't say."

"Tell me true, Charles." she said, turning her head to look up at him, "Did you enjoy it? You must have, why else would you have let Grigg talk you into it?"

He couldn't help but smile, "I did, for a time, enjoy it. I was very young, so that made loving anything easy. Loving _anyone _easy. I don't mean to boast but I was quite an accomplished vocalist. There as one song that I sang every night, there was a girl — a dancer, she would dance as I sang it. It was an audience favorite. Quite a silly number." he laughed sadly, "Oh, the music swims back to me."

"Will you sing it for me?"

"You'll think me terribly silly if I do."

She lifted her face from his chest and gave him a pleading look. He sighed, wrapping his arms around her and lifting her up so that they were both sitting. He opened his mouth, then closed it, shaking his head wearily. "You have to keep in mind it's been many, many years since I was on the stage. . ."

"Och, _go on Mr. Carson_!" she laughed, clapping her hands together.

Carson cleared his throat, puffing out his chest a bit. He inhaled deeply, held it, then looked at her once more. She nodded, egging him on, and he rolled his eyes slightly before launching into the number.

"_He'd fly through the air with the greatest of ease,  
>That daring young man on the flying trapeze.<br>His movements were graceful, all girls he could please  
>And my love he purloined away!" <em>

She brought her fingers to the tips of her lips, her mouth smiling around them. When he'd reached the end of the verse, he cleared his throat needlessly and gave a small shrug.

"That was lovely," she giggled.

"Not too terribly silly?"

"With a voice as rich as yours, I doubt anything would be." she said, "It reminded me a bit of how my Da used to play fiddle at the village dances. The band'd play late on a summer night. The air was hot — I'd sweat but I wouldn't stop dancing, not even for a moment. Ma would sit off to the side with Becky. They loved to watch me — you want to talk about foolishness, well, imagine me spinning around a barn in Argyl barefoot on a summer's night." she laughed weakly, and her eyes dimmed a bit as she remembered, "It was, really, the only time I can remember my mother smiling. Becky loved the music. It soothed her. She'd clap her wee hands along and wave to Da. I'd dance and dance all night long, come home with bloodied toes, straw in my hair — I wanted those nights to go on forever. I didn't want their happiness to fade."

She felt her throat burn, but she held her breath, hoping she'd be able to keep the tears at bay. It had been such a marvelous evening. She didn't want to spoil it. She lifted her face, her smile a bit of a grimace. "I did love reeling. I was quite good."

"I imagine you were." Carson said, reaching over to place a hand on her cheek. She bit her lip, suddenly concerned that she'd upset him. His face looked haunted. "You don't have to staunch your tears on my account." He said, his thumb gently caressing her cheek.

"I wouldn't want you to think me sentimental." She said, turning her face away from him. She immediately regretted doing so, as he looked perfectly hurt. "I'm sorry," she whispered, "You've to understand I've never spoken about Becky. Not to anyone. Of course the neighbors back home knew, the people in the village. When I left Argyll, came to England —" she sighed, her shoulders shaking, "I've never told a soul about her, Charles. Just you."

"I'm honored that you did." he said, struggling to make out her expression in the dark of their bedroom.

"You're about the last person on God's green earth I'd want to know about her."

"Oh." he said, wounded. "I — perhaps I misunderstood. I thought you— well, I thought you trusted me."

"Mr. Carson—" her voice cracked and she gave him an apologetic smile, "_Charles,_ I do trust you. Entirely, I do. I didn't want to burden you with it. That's what I mean to say." she sighed, crawling back beneath the covers of the bed. He scooted over to accommodate her, but waited to see if she would return to his arms.

"You're the one who has shouldered the burden," he said, "You've done it admirably. But it's been a long time."

She nodded, worrying her lip. He reached over and gently ran his thumb along it, feeling the roughness of where she'd pulled the skin apart. She looked up at him and even in the dark he could see her eyes glistening.

"Come here." he said, his voice low. He wrapped his arms around her and held her against his chest. At first, her crying was so soft he thought perhaps he'd been wrong, but then he felt her begin to shake and soon the only sound echoing into the rafters was that of her quiet sobbing. "You never stopped reeling did you?"

"What do you mean?" she asked, pressing harder against him, her warm tears dampening his chest.

"When you were a child, dancing to make your mother smile. Dancing long after it had ceased to bring _you _any joy. You kept going until your feet bled to so that you might give them happiness." he ran a hand lightly down the length of her spine, his finger rising and falling over each vertebral hill. "Haven't you been doing that all your life? Not in the literal sense, of course. But —" he licked his lips contemplatively, "Your decision to come to Downton. Your ambition to run the house, how quickly you excelled — was it all for Becky? At the price of your own happiness?"

She cried quietly against him and he realized that, perhaps, she didn't know the answer. He sighed into her hair, letting his eyes flutter closed.

"Do you remember when you asked me if I ever wished I'd gone another way? Had a wife and a family of my own?"

He felt her nod against him.

"I turned the question back to you, asked if you did. _Sometimes, _you said." he paused, "You weren't really talking about service were you? You were talking about Becky." She didn't speak for a moment, and though he felt like he was treading into territory perhaps he shouldn't be, he continued on. "If — if things had been different. If Becky hadn't needed looking after. Perhaps you'd have accepted that farmer's proposal, had some children. Maybe you'd have chosen _not _to come to Downton."

"Well, I_ didn't_ a choice," she said lifting her head suddenly, "I never _could_ have gone another way. I never _could_ have given up a life in service — even if I'd wanted to because there would have been no one to look after Becky." she was shaking, and she brought her hands up to cover her face, "There isn't a soul who cares about her except for me. I'm all she's got."

"I—"

She let her hands fall and she looked straight at him, her face tear-streaked. "This is why I didn't want to tell you about her. I didn't want you to pity me. I _don't_ want you to pity me." She coughed out a sob, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand. After a moment, she composed herself and took a shaking breath, "All you've to do — _all I'm asking you to do_— is be here beside me." She held his gaze a moment, a few tears lingering. "Can you do that?"

He felt his own eyes begin to sting, his throat swell with the ache of his own tears.

"Elsie, I am. I have been for . . . for many years, in fact. Surely you knew that?" he leaned over, running his hand through her hair. She pressed her cheek against his hand, closing her eyes. He kicked the blankets down, sticking his feet under them and sliding next to her. Laying his head against the pillow, he waited for her to lower her head onto the pillow so that they could look at one another straight on. Once she had, he wiggled closer so that their noses were nearly touching. "I don't pity you." he whispered, their proximity making him somewhat self conscious about his booming voice. "I have _never_ pitied you."

She sniffled, "She's always going to need me. You can't save me from that."

"I know."

"It's not only money for her care, Charles. The lass needs to know that someone, _somewhere_ loves her."

He reached for her beneath the blankets, letting his hand rest at the dip of her hip.

"It would seem to me that _everyone_ needs that."

She smiled, pressing her forehead against his. "I love her very much. She deserves to have a good life."

He kissed her chastely, letting his hand rub the small of her back. "So do you."

"So do I what?"

"Deserve to have a good life— and Becky's not the only one who needs to know that someone loves her. All of those years that you made sure she knew she was loved, who loved you?" he sighed, studying her face. "When was the last time someone said that they loved _you?_"

Her mouth fell open, words lost to her. She clicked her jaw shut and thought a moment, then huffed out a small laugh — her shoulders shrugging slightly.

"I do," he said, letting his hand run the length of her back and across her shoulder. He let his thumb caress her jaw just slightly before he kissed her softly. He pulled his lips from hers just enough to speak. "_I love you_."

"Oh, Charles you don't have —" she said, shaking her head lightly and lowering her eyes.

"I love you. I'm not saying it because I feel obligated. I'm not saying it because I pity you, or feel that you need to hear it — I'm not trying to make up for all the years that you went without because I never could. I am telling you. . .that I love you. . .because I do— and I will. For the rest of your life may you know that there is someone, somewhere who cares for you. Because I do, Elsie. Very much."

She looked at him then and she saw it. The tenderness with which he held her gaze warmed her and she knew.

"Mr. Carson, when was the last time someone said they loved_ you? _Surely it's been just as long, if not longer, than I have?"

"Well, I —"

"I ...love you." she said hesitantly, as though she were speaking a language she'd only just begun to learn. Then, licking her lips and taking a deep breath, she tried again, her voice a bit louder, a bit more sure. "I love you. So long as I'm here, you'll not go another day without hearing it." She nuzzled closer to him, nudging his legs apart with her knee, draping one of her legs over his, tangling them together in a knot of limbs. He rested his chin atop her head, letting his eyes close. They sighed deeply, almost in unison. He felt an old verse tickling his lips.

He sang softly to her as her breathing slowed and she fell asleep against him.

_Darling, I am growing old,_

_Silver threads among the gold_

_Shine upon my brow today;_

_Life is fading fast away;_

_But, my darling, you will be, will be,_

_Always young and fair to me,_

_Yes, my darling, you will be,_

_Always young and fair to me.*_

* * *

><p><em>*<em>Silver Threads Among The Gold _was written in the 1870s and was immensely popular. Very likely a Cheerful Charlies number, especially for Carson's baritone! My grandma used to sing this when I was growing up, playing the piano — it's a beautiful song and you can listen to about 1,000 versions of it on Youtube! _


	4. Chapter 4

_Busy old fool, unruly Sun,  
>Why dost thou thus,<br>Through windows, and through curtains, call on us?_

—**John Donne**

* * *

><p><em>Chapter Four<em>

* * *

><p>The coo of a mourning dove outside their window woke her. Before she opened her eyes, she merely moved to turn away from the window, only to realize there were arms around her, holding her in place. As she begin to feel herself be pulled from the sea of sleep, she could feel the weight of his arm draped over her waist, his palm pressed against her belly, chin resting atop her shoulder, the sound of his light snores suddenly filling her ear.<p>

_My goodness, _she thought, _so this is what I've missed. _

She let her eyes flutter closed and sighed deeply, wiggling herself closer to him, her feet nudging the blankets apart to find his toes beneath. Tentatively, she touched her toes to his, stifling a giggle that rose up in her like an impish schoolgirl.

"If you're planning to rouse me each morning with your frigid little toes, I _may_ rethink this shared sleeping arrangement." he said, his voice rumbling through his chest against her back. Startled, she turned over, her head lolling toward him along her pillow, which he'd somehow managed to commandeer in the night.

A sleepy smile spread across his face and he yawned, his hand beginning to roam across the front of her body, smoothing her nightclothes across her warm belly. She immediately stiffened, her knees jerking up beneath the layers of blankets.

He blinked more fully awake, watching as her face went from one of playful warning to defensiveness.

_She was ticklish. _

Registering his epiphany, she kicked at the blankets, a small snort escaping her as she sat up, her unkempt hair now falling fully into her face as she looked down at him. "Don't you _dare—" _

Moving more sprightly than he had in decades, he reached out and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her back down in the sea of bed covers. She squealed as he peppered kisses along the side of her neck, behind her ear, nuzzling his nose against her hair. His fingers climbed the ladder of her ribs and she began to laugh as she had the night before — nearly a _guffaw_, a sound so new and alluring to him that it made him pause.

"I've known you more than twenty years and I don't recall you _ever_ being in stitches over _anything_."

Catching her breath, she rolled her eyes, "I don't think I've laughed like that since I was a girl," she said, exhaling slowly to steady her breathing. "Even then, I'm not sure I had much to titter about."

He settled back into bed, letting his arm drape across her middle, the other sliding beneath his pillow. She turned toward him, her arm draping likewise across him, and the other coming to rest against her chest, her fingers gently stroking her collarbone.

"It's probably a good thing we _didn't_ marry until we were old codgers," she whispered, "Imagine if we'd met when we were tenderfoots — carrying on like this in the wee hours of the morning with a whole day's work ahead of us."

"You'd never have stepped out with a lad like _me._" he said.

"You couldn't possibly know that."

"I do," he shrugged, "I know you were no longer a girl when you arrived at Downton, but you were certainly no _shadow _of that young woman. I could see, quite clearly, what that _lass_ in Argyll must have been like." he chuckled, "Too spirited to be interested in a stodgy chap like me."

"Oh, Mr. Carson—" she said, then corrected herself, "_Charles—_ you aren't nearly the bore you present yourself to be. As is evidenced by your earlier spontaneous desire to _feel your oats._"

"Hardly spontaneous! It was entirely spurred on by the discovery that you, stoic and consummate housekeeper of Downton Abbey, are _preciously _ticklish."

Her cheeks flushed and she nestled her cheek against her pillow. "I confess, until your hand wandered across my middle — I didn't _know_ that I was."

"Really?"

"Well, I suppose I naturally _assumed_ but there was never an occasion to test the theory." she gave him a small smile, "It's quite nice to realize there are still things to be discovered at my age. . ."

"So there are." he said, "Do you suppose I ought to get up and_ discover_ something for our breakfast? Uncover a kettle for tea, perhaps?"

"Would you mind staying a moment more?"

He smiled, leaning over to kiss her nose. "Only a moment?"

"I can't imagine you wanting to languish too long in bed. What is it they say? You can take the man from his butlering, but you can't take the butlering from the man?"

"Something to that effect." he scoffed, "But you've piqued my curiosity and I think perhaps I know what it is I'm to busy myself with in retirement."

"Oh?" she said, "And what might that be?"

"Being an explorer."

She wiggled closer to him, letting her head rest against his chest. He wrapped his arm around her, palm flat against her back. "An explorer of what, pray tell?"

He laughed, letting his chin rest against the top of her head. "_The world of Elsie Hughes." _


End file.
